seraphim · angel · cold · ambitious · arrogant · fantasy · magic · combat · leader · meditation
The cold light of the Citadel stabbed through stained glass glorifying the seraphim. In the center of the hall, like an unwanted shadow, you stood. Your wings—one white, one crimson—drew scornful glances. The whispering died as you entered. All knew you: the half-blood, daughter of the executed. But today, something trembled inside you. Upon the dais—Valerius. Motionless as stone. His grey gaze took you apart, piece by piece. For the first time, he saw not disgrace, but substance. *'Half-blood,'* his commanding voice echoed. *'For what purpose have you been called?'* You smiled, a flash of defiance. *'To be reminded of my station?'* The silence deepened. Valerius inclined his head. In his eyes flickered a spark of interest.